“I thought we were leaving the old clunker behind,” Albert said.
“Not a chance. I won’t use it in the new business, but I’m not leaving it out here for some asshole to come along and steal it. This belongs to me. I paid good money for it. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, it’s cool.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Daisy turned the wheel of the Land Rover to the right, cruising by the same wooden sign she’d ridden past on the mountain bike. This time, though, pebbles weren’t landing on her back like before and she was grateful. So were her thighs, not having to pedal like a madwoman with people hanging on.
Old Mill Road wasn’t exactly a smooth ride, but the suspension on the ancient vehicle was doing its job. Stephanie was in the truck behind her, piloting the second vehicle, her beautiful but perpetually angry face centered perfectly in Daisy’s rear view mirror.
Somehow Daisy could sense Stephanie’s thoughts. They were focused on her and what she’d done, bringing a sharp pain to her chest. Daisy wasn’t sure how many more times she’d have to apologize for her embarrassing interlude with Steph’s ex-husband, but she planned to keep soliciting forgiveness until it found its way to her.
There wasn’t much else she could do other than keep trying to fix things between them. She knew it might never happen, but it was the right thing to do, regardless of the odds. There was no way around it—she’d done wrong and hurt one of her oldest friends.
Daisy swallowed hard, wishing she could unwind the hands of time and eliminate that one mistake. A huge mistake. One that had smothered her soul in a shroud of darkness, erasing all the good she’d done in her life.
Bill King wasn’t the most handsome man she’d ever met, but he could be unbelievably charming when he wanted to—usually when a pair of legs and other assets were in his crosshairs.
How could she have been so stupid?
She knew his reputation.
And yet, she let herself fall victim to his unsolicited advances, smearing her reputation in the process. She’d only let her fence down for a moment, giving him the small opportunity he needed to climb past it and establish a toehold in her life.
Daisy flushed the pity party from her thoughts, then pressed the brake pedal and slowed the lead vehicle before pulling in parallel to Tuttle’s gate.
“We’re here,” she announced to Franklin Atwater, the hulking black man who was stretched out horizontally on the seat behind her. “I’m gonna go have a quick chat with Steph.”
“About what?” the injured cowboy asked, his concern obvious.
“There’s something I need to go take care of before she brings the kids inside. Will you be okay for a minute?”
“Yeah,” he grunted in response, his hand pressing on the bullet wound in his shoulder. “I think I have the bleeding stopped. For now, anyway. Go do what you need to do. I’ll be okay.” He worked himself into a sitting position, the grimace on his face intense.
“I’ll be right back,” Daisy said, hopping out of the truck and heading to the second vehicle with a fast stride, arriving in seconds.
She rapped on the glass of the driver’s window, expecting a response.
Stephanie never moved, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Daisy knocked again, this time with a set of more determined knuckles. “Come on, Steph. We need to talk. It’s important.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” Stephanie said, her lips pressed together into a pucker. She pointed at the car parked in front, whipping her finger in an arc from back to front. “So I’d suggest you just turn that big butt of yours around and go take care of Franklin. The kids and I will follow you inside.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I need you to keep the kids out here for a bit, while I go clean up inside. There are some things they shouldn’t see.”
Stephanie still didn’t bring her eyes around to look at Daisy. If the woman could breathe fire, Daisy figured the hood of the Land Rover would be engulfed in flames by now.
Daisy wasn’t about to give up, despite the woman’s justified anger and resentment. “Look, you don’t have to talk to me, but we have others to think about here. So we have to find a way to work together.”
Stephanie remained perfectly still, not moving or blinking.
Daisy’s chest grew heavy, making every breath harder than the last. “Come on, Steph. I’ve said I’m sorry like a million times already. We have to get past this, for everyone’s sake. Even if it’s only for a few minutes. You can hate me again tomorrow. But right now, we have to do what’s right. For the kids and for Franklin.”
Stephanie turned her head, landing her piercing eyes on Daisy. They flared a bit as she tilted her head with attitude. “I’m listening.”
“Can you watch Franklin while I go do what I gotta do? He looks stable for the moment, but I’d feel better if he weren’t alone.”
“Alone? Like you left me? And my son?” Stephanie snapped in a quick, terse tone, her head bobbing left and right as she spoke.
Daisy sighed, her shoulders slumping. This was going nowhere. “I said I’m sorry. I don’t know what else I can do.”
Stephanie didn’t answer.
Daisy looked at the kids in the back seat. The alarm in their eyes was all-consuming. Sparring with Stephanie wasn’t going to help the situation.
It was time to give up on the apology route. She’d done all she could, but this approach clearly wasn’t working. No matter what she said or did from this point forward, she would always be the slutty mistress of Clearwater and would always be the one to blame for breaking up the Kings’ marriage. What had happened couldn’t be undone, no matter how hard she tried. Stephanie was never going to let this go.
Guilty or not, Daisy decided it was time to take charge like a Deputy Sheriff should do and protect the citizenry. Franklin needed medical attention and she needed to go inside and clear out the bodies and wipe up the blood.
Her voice energized with strength and the pain in her chest evaporated in an instant. “Enough already, Steph. I screwed up and I apologized. But this is where it ends. As a duly sworn officer of the law, I need you to watch Franklin and make sure the bleeding doesn’t start again. That’s an order.”
“What’s going on?” a new female’s voice said from behind.
Daisy whipped her head around, seeing Allison Rainey standing two feet away. Allison’s aging mother and long-haired son were also there, posing as curious bookends on either side of her. Daisy figured the nosy neighbors must have seen the trucks pull up and walked across the street to investigate.
Daisy needed to explain, but not within earshot of the kids, so she pulled Allison aside and stood close to her. She pointed at the lead Land Rover, then changed the tone of her voice to a whisper. “Franklin Atwater is hurt pretty bad.”
“What happened?” Allison asked in a hush, her words nearly silent.
“Took a bullet in the shoulder.”
“Someone shot him?” Allison asked, her eyes wide.
“Yeah, a little while ago.”
“Who?”
Daisy didn’t want to go into the details about the Pokémon men and their kidnapping exploits, so she redirected the focus to something more urgent. Something she hoped Allison would latch onto and help with. “We got the bleeding stopped, but we really need to get him inside before it starts up again. We’re hoping Tuttle has a medical kit somewhere. But first, I need to go clean up some blood and bodies. Don’t want the kids to see them.”
“Blood and bodies? Cool,” Victor said after stepping forward and joining the conversation, his youthful eyes full of excitement.
“Bodies?” Allison asked, looking stunned.
Daisy nodded, realizing she was relaying too much information. “From an earlier incident.”
“Who’s doing this? Are we in danger?”
Before Daisy could answer, Martha Rainey joined them, angling her shoulders to squeeze her way into the whisper
group. “I can help.”
Daisy wasn’t sure how, remaining silent as she took a few moments to decide on a proper response. She wished Allison’s son wasn’t part of this conversation but wasn’t certain if she should ask him to leave.
Martha didn’t wait. “I used to be a trauma nurse.”
Daisy welcomed the news, not only because of the professional medical assistance, but because the old woman had just changed the subject, keeping her from having to answer Allison or scold the boy for butting in. “Oh. Okay, cool. We can use the help. Do you have a med kit at your place?”
Martha shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. Just a basic first aid kit.”
“Why didn’t you take Franklin back to town?” Allison asked, her tone skeptical. “Why bring him here?”
Daisy knew the truth about the insurgents wouldn’t serve any useful purpose, so she decided to soften her answer and spin. A gentle lie was needed to keep everyone calm and cooperating. For Franklin’s sake, and the kids’. “This was closer. We had to act fast.”
Allison grabbed at Daisy, latching her thin fingers around Daisy’s wrist. “What if someone followed you here?”
“They didn’t. Trust me, nobody knows we’re here.”
Martha unhooked Allison’s hand from Daisy, then looked at her daughter. “We’ve got work to do, sweetheart. People need help. The deputy knows what she’s doing. We need to listen to her and do exactly what she says.”
Allison nodded and exhaled, her eyes turning soft. Her mother was obviously in charge and carried a lot of persuasion. It was too bad that level of control didn’t extend to Martha’s grandson, listening to every word being said.
Allison looked at Daisy, her eyes focused and brows pinched. “What do you need me to do?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Bunker stirred awake with his eyes shut and head spinning. He tried to lock onto his thoughts, but they were popping in and out of focus as a swirling fog filled his mind. The pounding thump across the back of his skull wasn’t helping either, keeping his face scrunched and eyes tight.
A minute or so later, his thoughts gained a foothold, triggering the rest of his senses to come alive. Sensory information came at him all at once, feeding his mind a stream of data: birds tweeting, water trickling, crickets chirping, and bees buzzing. Plus there was the scent of pine trees, wild jasmine and musky decay, lingering humidity, smoke, and the distinct stench of feces. He was obviously still in the forest—somewhere.
Gravity told him he was vertical, not horizontal. Yet he wasn’t standing. It was more like he was cradled in something. Or tangled, if he factored in the pressure across his back and the tightness encircling his legs.
Two heartbeats later, a new flash of pain registered. This time it was from his left forearm, originating from a single spot near the midpoint. There was also pressure associated with the ache, feeling as though it was expanding outward.
A tightness rose up from his stomach, but it wasn’t from pain or stress. It was a different kind of discomfort—hunger. Level ten and climbing. The kind of hunger that makes you think about eating a pile of bear scat, if given the chance.
Bunker tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn’t budge. They were stuck together, like glue, taking all the control away from him. But that wasn’t all; his eyelids felt heavy and dry, like something was covering them.
A sudden rustle of leaves came at him from the left. He sucked in a breath and turned his head, listening for clues. Just when fear was about to make an appearance, he felt a gentle brush of air tickle the skin on his cheek. It flowed over his nose, building in force as it ran from one side to the other.
He relaxed, letting the oxygen run free from his lungs. It was just the wind, not a Slavic fire team on the hunt. Or a bear needing to fill its hunger for meat. Otherwise, he’d hear the directional sounds of twigs snapping and foot plants, not just the gentle pulse of air moving through the trees.
He tried to bring his hands up to clean off his eyes, but only his right arm moved. His left was not responding, defying him like a petulant child. He tried to move the arm again, but it sent back a howling sting instead, making him grimace.
Bunker used the fingers on his free hand to wipe his eyelids clean of a dry, crusty substance. It felt like mud, caked on like pancake batter.
Sunlight poured in after he pried his lids apart, storming his vision in a flood of white. He turned his head and blinked, waiting for the parade of spots and blobs to fade. Eventually they did. So did the tears, though not as quickly.
He looked to see what was wrong with his left arm. It was ramrod straight and out to his side, rising up at a forty-five degree angle. A moment later, he saw it—a bloody stick protruding through the skin in the middle of his forearm.
The branch was about a half-inch in diameter, wide enough to take out the center of his Harley-Davidson tattoo. The capital letters Y and D had been obliterated, almost as if the branch had been aiming for them. He could still move his fingers and didn’t see any bone exposed, so he figured it wasn’t broken.
He looked down to take a visual survey of the rest of his condition. His body was stuck in a thicket of driftwood, his legs tangled in a nest of branches. Thankfully, his feet were holding up his weight; otherwise, he would’ve felt like a side of beef hanging from a meat packer’s hook.
The water was a handful of inches beyond his feet, but it wasn’t flowing like he expected. It was calm and shallow, with a layer of gravel and sand below its glimmering surface.
Several tiny fish swam about, cruising in and out of the shadows as they scoured the pool for food. A few yards away was a grassy bank, angling down from the nearby tree line.
Bunker thought about it for a few moments, trying to remember what had happened before he woke up. When the answers came to him, they streamed up from his memories in a series of brilliant flashes.
The Russian mortar landing close.
The hillside blowing apart.
Flying backwards through the air.
Searing pain in his forearm.
Wetness on his legs.
His head hitting something hard.
The data points lined up in his brain, telling him the explosion must have jettisoned him into the river, where he landed on one of the collections of branches that had been trapped in front of a boulder. That’s how he ended up impaled.
He figured the momentum of his impact must have broken the wood pile free from the rock. That’s when it drifted downstream, taking him with it until they both ran aground on a sandbar.
The facts seemed to fit the scenario he was in, but they didn’t explain how mud got caked on his eyes. The only answer he could come up with was that the branches had been tossed around by the current, rolling and tumbling like a beach ball.
At one point, he must have been upside down with his head in shallow water. He ran his fingers through his hair to confirm. Yes, mud was present. Caked on and dry. His forehead was full of silt, too. But not his cheeks, nose, or chin.
The facts were obvious. He’d been underwater, just deep enough to cover his eyes and hair in mud, but not deep enough to drown him.
Damn lucky.
Almost as lucky as what happened when he was on the ridge. The Russians sent their arsenal his way but somehow, not a speck of shrapnel hit his body.
He’d heard of that happening before on the battlefield, but he always thought it was a complete fabrication, somebody’s inaccurate version of the truth. Possibly a sick joke invented to keep the new recruits calm and compliant while advancing on their target with less fear in their bones. Let’s face it, hope is a powerful tool. It can trump fear, even a mountain of it, but only if a foundation is set first—a foundation formed in lunacy.
There was a reason they were called FNGs, or Fucking New Guys, because cannon fodder was too harsh a term, regardless of its accuracy. He’d seen his share of FNGs come and go, usually on a stretcher or in a body bag.
For all that shrapnel to miss him li
ke that on the ridge, he must have gotten more than lucky. Almost as if God himself had stepped in and erected an impenetrable force field, deflecting the metal away. He didn’t understand any of it, but yet, here he was. Alive and in one piece—well, sort of.
The odd thing was, he was completely dry. Not a hint of moisture on his clothes. He distinctly remembered his legs being wet before he passed out.
Plus, if the cocoon of branches surrounding him had been floating, bobbing, and rolling, more of his clothes must have gotten wet. Lack of moisture meant time had passed, long enough for the sun to dry his clothes.
But how much time? Hours? Days? He couldn’t be sure, not after blacking out from a head injury. Regardless, it was time to get moving.
First up on his to-do list was to liberate himself from the wilderness spear in his arm. He brought his free hand over and cupped the underside of his forearm with his palm, his fingers spread out evenly around the entry point.
Bunker took a deep breath and yanked with every ounce of energy he could rally. The pain exploded when his arm slid up about an inch and then stopped. He groaned with his jaw clenched, keeping a four-alarm scream from leaving his lips.
Three rapid breaths later, he closed his eyes and let his head sink. The blowtorch incident was the worst pain he’d ever felt, but this was a close second. Anytime your body is punctured by an object of significant size, it’ll convince you to reevaluate all your decisions. And do so based on expected pain levels.
“There has to be a better way,” he mumbled between breaths, visualizing the dynamics inside the wound. Several inches of the stick remained above his arm, its coarse bark ready to tear apart the sensitive tissue inside. At this rate, he’d need another handful of tugs before he was clear, each one sending his agony into orbit.
He sighed, realizing his luck had become a fickle mistress.
Right then, a new idea entered his mind, flashing an image of his knife. He might be able to use it to cut the branch off just below his arm. Once free, he could bring his arm in front and pull the stick out with one thrust. It would hurt either way, but he’d have better leverage to remove it quickly, minimizing the duration of the torture.
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3) Page 39